


And When (His) Edges Soften

by MissNaya



Category: DCU
Genre: Alpha Bruce, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Asphyxiation, Blood, Bruce needs anger management, Bruce's internal struggles, Canon-Typical Violence, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jason's death that is, Joker needs Jesus, M/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Unhealthy Relationships, he's not in it but, it's discussed, omega Joker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9656534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: “You need something from me, I need something from you. What's say we make a deal?”“You don't need me. Not for that.”“Oh, but I do!” Joker grins, looking up at Batman through half-lidded, radioactive-green eyes. “Who else knows how to hold me like you do? Who else peppers my cheeks with kisses? Granted, they're kisses from your fists, but it's the thought that counts...”Or, Joker is an unconventional omega, and Bruce is never quite sure who's in control.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just saw the Lego Batman Movie and they went so hard on the batjokes that I had to write something (not that this is Legoverse but god can you imagine)
> 
> omegaverse because why not

It's always odd to think that the Joker — a spotlight-hogging egomaniac, a mass murderer and _complete_ psychopath — is an omega. That he could have that designation and so boldly spit in the face of everything that an omega is supposed to be never fails to astound Bruce. He's a staunch advocate of the omega's rights movement, but he does wish that if Joker was going to defy stereotypes, he'd do it in away that ended in less carnage.

He can't do much now that he's in Arkham, but Batman can _smell_ his heat all the way through the six inches of bulletproof glass that makes up his cell, sickly-sweet and chaotic in a way that matches him too perfectly. Most of the patients in the asylum are on suppressants to try and keep them under control, but nobody can ever successfully medicate the Joker.

He considers arranging to shove the pills down Joker's throat himself, if only to get that disgustingly tantalizing smell out of the air. Then he catches himself thinking about shoving something else down his throat for the umpteenth time, and locks that train of thought up in the darkest recesses of his mind where it belongs.

“ _Batsy."_

He tries to walk past the cell, get out of here now that he's dropped the latest criminal maniac off, but something in Joker's voice makes him stop. Were he the type of person to use suppressants, he might have been able to keep going, but he doesn't like the way they numb his emotions and throw off his senses.

“Batsy,” Joker repeats. Batman doesn't turn around. “Can we talk? I feel like you've been distant lately.”

His voice is breathy, even more on-edge than usual. It rises and falls like waves in a storm, crashing hard against Batman's self-control. He stands still as a boulder.

“What.”

“See? Like that! Always so stern, so un _caring._ Are you ashamed of me, is that it? Don't want to talk in front of our friends?”

Batman still doesn't look back, but he glances at the nearest inmate, sitting rapt listening to their conversation. He imagines quite a few of the others are doing the same. He glares, but it does little to dissuade the glossy-eyed lunatic.

“Hey!” Joker nearly barks out the word, voice thick with an omega's urgency. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I don't have time for this,” Batman says. He _hears_ Joker shudder, hears him sigh like a schoolgirl listening to her crush speak.

“I promise I'll be quick! Pinkie promise.” A beat. “Batsy, look!”

He relents. Joker is sticking one long, white pinkie finger out through the air holes in his cell. Batman doesn't sigh, but he wants to.

“I'm not doing that.”

“Your loss.” Joker shrugs, sliding down to sit cross-legged in front of the glass. “But now I don't have to keep my promise~”

“Talk.” There's a bit of alpha in his voice, more so than usual. He tries not to let himself be too delighted when Joker's eyes go wide.

“Look, Bats,” Joker says, dragging bare fingers down the glass. They squeak irritatingly on the way down. “I know we've had our differences. You thwart my plans, I kill your sidekicks, yadda yadda yadda. But does that really mean you have to be so cruel?” He sticks his lip out in an exaggerated pout. “One conjugal visit, that's all I ask. Since you're here, and all.”

Batman starts walking away before Joker even finishes talking. Joker's laugh echoes off the walls, following him down the corridor and around the corner. He holds his breath until the elevator drops him off above ground.

* * *

 

He doesn't want to go back. He's not afraid, but Joker's heat cycle is as unpredictable as the rest of him, and he hates the risk. He tells himself there's no need to be so tense, that he's had enough training to master his own instincts, but every time that cotton-candy-rot-slick scent washes over him, he feels himself falter. The mere thought of mating with the Joker makes his stomach turn, but another part of him, a part he wishes didn't exist, delights in the idea of having him so completely under his control.

He scowls through thoughts of blood and fists and sex, and the buzzer leading into a padded interrogation cell turns green and invites him in.

Joker is in there already, snug in a straitjacket, but his scent is strong enough to threaten to knock Batman back. Perfect. He thinks of turning tail and walking out, trying his luck with this case on his own, but the thick steel door slams shut behind him, and he chides himself for nearly giving in.

“Ooh, I _knew_ it was you!” Joker says, straightening his back while his eyes light up. “They told me I had a special guest, and I thought, who could be coming to see little old me? Harley? Croc? The commissioner, maybe? We really bonded before, let me tell you. The ol' boy tries to deny it, but we _felt_ something that night, me and him.”

Batman lets him babble, standing tall and rigid. He spends entirely too much time focusing on Joker's mouth, on his throat.

“But, no! _You._ ” That toothy grin makes the hairs on the back of Batman's neck stand up, loathe as he is to admit it. It's too predatory for an omega; it looks out of place. “My baby, my honey, my ragtime bat! How long's it been? A year? Two? I can hardly keep track of time in here, what with the whole 'no windows' situation.”

“A month and a half,” Batman says through gritted teeth.

“Feels longer.”

For Batman, it doesn't feel long enough. If he didn't know better, he'd wonder if Joker was just constantly in heat. It's certainly starting to seem that way.

He's getting distracted already. _Focus on the matter at hand._

“You have information on Scarecrow's whereabouts,” he says, all business, all Bat. “You're going to tell me what you know.”

The Joker bats his eyelashes. “Me? And Johnny boy? Now, where did you hear that?”

“I know you helped him scout out a location to store his fear toxin,” Batman presses. “If he isn't stopped, people will die. A lot of people.”

“I know,” Joker says, squirming around in his seat. “Isn't it funny?”

Batman gets hit with another wave of his scent, and he closes his eyes. He manages not to breathe in like his body wants him to, but he's sure the reaction doesn't go unnoticed. He has to keep control of the situation. He can't let himself stutter for even a second.

“I'm not in the mood to play games,” he says, opening his eyes to see Joker staring at him with an expression that's far too hungry.

“Really? Because I'm always up for a game,” he says. “Ooh, and I just thought of a good one! It's called—”

“Joker—”

“—it's _called,_ What Can Batman Do For His Very Best Friend?”

“We're not friends.” He takes a step forward, casting an imposing shadow over Joker (who doesn't seem to mind). “And I'm not having fun.”

“I think I can change that.”

Joker leans back, stretching his legs and his neck at the same time. That pale expanse of skin is so blank, so delicate, and Batman salivates at the thought of marking it up. Possessiveness is just one of a few ugly alpha traits that he still falls victim to too often.

“Caught you looking, big boy.” Joker laughs, high and grating, and Batman glares at him, very pointedly keeping his eyes on his face. It's too little, too late. “It's okay; I'm unattached.”

Batman quirks a brow. “Harley?”

“Oh. Right.” Joker rolls his shoulders in the best shrug he can manage while in a straitjacket. “Well, you know what they say. More is more.”

“Nobody says that.”

“You are determined to stomp on my happiness at every opportunity, aren't you?” Joker starts off angry, but then that glare fades into a doe-eyed smile. “...That's what I love about you.”

Batman stiffens. “You don't love me.”

“What is love, if not a combination of all those funny little chemicals that twist up our noggins and _rush_ through our heads? Both of them, mind you.” When Batman doesn't laugh at his double entendre, he continues. “And lemme tell ya, I have got a chemical problem over here! From the smell of it, you do, too.”

The smell of it? What? Surely Batman can't be putting off that many pheromones. He knows himself; he has a grip on his pheromone production, more so than most people. Even if he can't control it completely, he shouldn't be scenting enough for Joker to notice. Then again, they _are_ in a small, poorly-ventilated room...

He's silent for a moment too long, and Joker throws his head back, cackling some more.

“Oh, come now, Batsy, don't tell me you're shy!” He sways back and forth, spreading around more of his scent with every movement. “Not now, not after all this time! Listen.”

Joker purses his lips, and Batman has to clench his hands into fists to power through another wave of temptation.

“You need something from me, I need something from you. What's say we make a deal?”

“You don't need me. Not for that.”

“Oh, but I do!” Joker grins, looking up at Batman through half-lidded, radioactive-green eyes. “Who else knows how to hold me like you do? Who else peppers my cheeks with kisses? Granted, they're kisses from your fists, but it's the thought that counts...”

“I don't think of you that way,” Batman says (lies). Joker ignores him.

“You're so _rough,_ it's just what I need. Step on me, bash my head in, knock out a few teeth if you have to! You have _no_ idea how much I miss you, Batsy baby...”

“Stop.”

This is bad. He's losing control of the situation more and more each second. He can feel his cock straining in his pants, thanks whatever god there is that his uniform isn't flexible enough to show it off. But if Joker couldn't smell him before, he has to be able to now.

“What? Don't like dirty talk? That's okay,” Joker says, dropping onto his knees. “You can shut me up if you want.”

“I want information,” Batman insists.

“I want you.”

Neither of them say anything for a good, long moment. They stare at each other, Joker on his knees, practically salivating, and Batman glaring down with all the acidity he can muster. Both of their scents thicken the air, make it hot and heavy around them.

“Well, I guess we're at a standstill.” Joker huffs at long last, flopping down on his rear. “It really is a shame. I don't even get to see little Scarecrow's show...”

Batman says nothing. He considers his options. He knows they disable the cameras when he “interrogates” suspects. What's his dignity matter when it's weighed up against thousands of lives?

(He tells himself it's not an excuse. He almost believes it.)

Grabbing Joker by the collar, he slams him up against a wall. The padding hardly makes a sound; it's unsatisfying. He wants to dwell on his irritation, but his thoughts are drowned out by Joker's coughing laughter.

“Boy, oh boy! If you—”

“Shut up.”

He's one hundred percent alpha now, using the tone he normally reserves for the bedroom. Joker wouldn't know that, of course, but he picks up on it through instinct, if the way he shudders is of any indication. The smile even fades off of his face.

That, Batman thinks, is the weirdest thing that's happened so far tonight.

He shifts around until he can press a knee between Joker's legs. It's not soft, not suggestive; it's rough and hard and just short of an actual attack, and Joker somehow manages to wheeze and moan in the same breath.

“You're going to tell me what I want to know,” Batman says. “No jokes. No tricks. I want to hear every bit of information you have on Scarecrow. Do you understand me?”

Joker is gaping. For a second, Batman wonders if he actually went too far, but then he hears that laughter again, a haunting breathy chuckle that shudders on every exhale.

“N-now that's the kind of initiative I like to s _eeOH—_ ”

A harder grind from Batman's knee shuts him up.

“Do. You. Understand me?”

“Yes,” Joker gasps, strands of green hair falling into his eyes. “ _Yes,_ Batsy. Loud and clear.”

“Talk.”

Joker does, much to his surprise. He spills information on dates, times, locations; things he didn't even think Joker would be privy to. It's for that reason that he almost doubts what he's hearing, but something in the tone of his voice is too genuine. It's a tone he's never quite heard before, but it stirs a base part of him that tries to reassure him. For whatever reason, he decides to trust it.

By the time he's finished, Joker is panting, face flushed as red as his lips. He didn't even know Joker could _get_ to be that color. He admires his trembling — _trembling!_ — form for just a moment too long, then steps back and lets go all at once, letting Joker topple face-first onto the padded floor. Joker's soaked through his pants. Batman can't remember the last time he saw a man get that wet.

“B-Batsy... That... was— Batsy?”

Batman's buzzed out. He steps out of the room with his lips set in a hard line, Joker's scent over his tongue and in his throat. It tastes like funnel cake and gasoline.

“Hey, Batsy! You're not gonna rut and run, are you, darling? Batsy. _Batsy!_ ”

“That was... enlightening.” He lingers in the doorway for a moment too long, but he doesn't let himself look back over his shoulder. He's terrified of what he might do. “Thank you.”

“You rotten little...! No! No, no, _no,_ this is not fair! Heartbreaker! Scoundrel! Fiend! You can't treat people like— Wait, did you just _thank_ me?”

Despite himself, the corners of Batman's lips quirk up.

“Goodbye, Joker.”

He lets the door slam shut on Joker's stunned silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of ashamed of myself that this isn't more explicit. I'll probably have to write another chapter and fix that. maybe one where Joker gets out of Arkham for the 828195837th time? leave suggestions if you want!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so... this is terrible? they're both terrible. Joker is more terrible, but they're both pretty terrible.
> 
> which is just how I like my batjokes, so I hope you guys do too!

Joker's intel on Scarecrow pans out. Batman wraps up the case in record time, without any casualties. When he shoves Crane back into his cell at Arkham, he can feel Joker's eyes on him the whole time, but, surprisingly, the clown says nothing. It's unsettling. It's been a couple days, but he can still smell the ghost of their last encounter, clinging to Joker like a fog.

When he gets back into the Batmobile, he tells Commissioner Gordon he should keep an eye on the asylum for a while. He isn't sure what, but he feels like Joker's plotting something. It's never a good sign when he keeps to himself like that.

But weeks go by, and then a month, and there's still no sign of any attempted breakouts. Joker has been, according to staff, “on his best behavior.”

That worries Bruce even more.

He lasts another 2 weeks before he gives. He's not proud of himself. He knows he's playing into Joker's hands by going back to Arkham. But a month and a half without even slitting another inmate's throat in “self-defense” is too much for him. Alfred tells him he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, but doesn't stop him when he leaves.

He interrogates every staffer assigned to Joker and a few who aren't, looking for a change in cells, attempts to give him medicine, asking who he's been talking to, _anything_ that might clue him into a plan that isn't just “force Batman to come knocking.” He finds nothing.

By the time he finally resigns himself to his fate and stands in front of the Joker's cell, he's inwardly fuming. He tries not to show it on his face, but there's bound to be a spike in alpha pheromones in the air that'll give him away.

Part of him doesn't have a problem with that.

He doesn't need to announce his presence, really, since Joker's eyes have been on him since he started down the hall. He does it anyway.

“Joker.”

“Ah, Batsy! I was wondering when you'd come to thank me again.” He's leaning up against the glass of his cell, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I figure your schedule must be pretty busy if it took you this long. Five years? Really?”

“A month and a half.”

Joker waves a dismissive hand. “Details, details. So, how've you been? You look good. I still think all black is a little dull, but it works for you.”

Bruce ignores the way the compliment stirs something in his gut. “What are you up to?”

“Me?” Joker blinks, delicately places a hand over his heart. He'd be the picture of a shocked Southern belle if it wasn't for his, well, everything. “Why, I've been holding down the home front, nothing more! Do you know how hard it is to keep your head on straight when you're surrounded by people like Dent? 'What should I have today, the applesauce or the cornflakes? Let's ask the coin!' Yeesh. Talk about a basket case, am I right?”

There's a lot to unpack with that, from the implication that Joker thinks of himself as a doting housewife waiting for Batman to come “home” to the asylum, to the pot-meet-kettle moment that he's sure is intentional. He doesn't play into any of it.

“Everyone says you've been on your best behavior since I left.”

“Is that not a good thing?”

“Your usual idea of 'best behavior' is only cutting off _one_ of a person's limbs. Call me wary.”

“Oh, Bats.” Joker shakes his head, one hand on the glass, the other raised dramatically to his forehead. “So smart, and yet you can never see what's right in front of your pointy nose. Have you ever considered that you've finally managed to tame me?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess that's fair.”

Joker sighs, nuzzling up against the glass the way a cat might. Through the air holes in his cell, Bruce catches an enticing whiff of his scent. He's not in heat, but he reeks of submission.

“Really, though. I found our last rendezvous to be just what I needed! Even electroshock therapy can't even come close to replicating the _tingles_ I felt when we were together.”

Bruce sets his mouth into a hard line, briefly glancing over at the adjacent cells. Nobody seems to be listening for now, but having Joker talk with so little shame about what happened between them puts him on edge. It's his word against Joker's if it comes down to it, he knows, but he'd still rather not deal with any rumors going around. He doesn't want to acknowledge what he did at all, for that matter.

What a mistake.

Furthermore, he knows exactly what Joker is doing, now. It's an unspoken promise: “I'll behave if you give me what I want.” He'd be a fool to take that deal. Glaring, he turns on his heel.

“I'll put in a recommendation with your psychiatrist to up the voltage, then,” he says. It's a threat that might work on some of the other inmates, but never the Joker.

Predictably, Joker just smiles. He doesn't need to see it at this point to know that's what he's doing. He can hear that sharp-toothed grin in every syllable.

“Ooh, you're always looking out for me, honey-buns. That's what I love about you. I should get you a present in return! How do you feel about that orderly, what's her name, Melissa?”

Reluctantly, Bruce stops walking.

“Don't touch her.”

“Why not? What's she to you? Should I be jealous?” Rather than sounding angry, though, Joker laughs. “Come now, Batsy, you and I both know civilians aren't your style. But if you're that attached, I could talk to her for you. See if she might give you her heart.”

Bruce has known the Joker long enough to know exactly what he's threatening to do. He sighs inwardly and turns back to his cell.

“Three days from now. Solitary. I'll set it up with the orderlies.” He narrows his eyes. “Don't touch _anyone_ until then.”

Joker smiles. “Not even myself?”

Bruce leaves.

* * *

 

So now he has 3 days to figure out how he's going to get out of this. _Stupid, stupid,_ he tells himself, _you never should have given in. Not even for a second._

He ignores Alfred's attempts to get him to eat or talk, and cuts off the comm line a few times when other members of the family try to get his input on cases. He needs to think. He needs to, but his base desires keep creeping up on him, like snakes winding their way around his body, crushing the breath out of his lungs.

He's being blackmailed, coerced, but is it _really_ that bad? If sex is the key to keeping Joker's insanity under wraps, shouldn't he be able to take one for the team? Isn't he supposed to protect Gotham at any cost?

—No, _no,_ he won't let himself consider it. He doesn't negotiate with psychopaths. When he gets to that private cell with Joker, he's going to tell him in no uncertain terms that he refuses to play his games. He refuses to give him the satisfaction.

...That's what he tells himself. But by the time three days go by and he's standing in a private padded cell with the Joker _again,_ he's no longer so certain.

Joker, as always, is smirking as if he hasn't got a care in the world. He smells like he's at the start of another heat. At this point, Bruce wonders if he can trigger them on purpose.

Joker breaks the silence first. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Bruce considers himself the picture of the perfect planner. No matter the situation, he's always prepared. But now, standing face-to-face with the Joker, the memory of his moans loud in his head, he finds that all of his carefully-laid options (of which, in this instance, there were few) have slipped his mind.

He can't believe he's seriously considering this.

“Ah,” Joker says when he still doesn't speak up. “I see what this is. You're shy, aren't you? Don't know how to make it official? Well, get this nice little jacket off me and I'll give you some pointers, big boy.”

Bruce's stomach turns, but his body otherwise reacts favorably to the offer. How long has it been since he was with an omega? Selina is a fellow alpha, which is its own brand of rewarding, but it's different. With an omega, he knows there's no struggle for control.

Then again, with an omega like Joker, he still has to wonder.

“You can understand why I'm skeptical,” he says, words measured. He doesn't move an inch.

“What? Do you really think I'd _lie_ about what you do to me?” Joker gapes.

“Yes.”

“Batsy! This lack of trust is really going to be a stick in our relationship!”

Finally, Bruce leans over and snatches Joker up by the collar of his straitjacket. He takes a moment to appreciate how Joker's Adam's apple bobs before he speaks.

“We do not have a 'relationship,'” he says. “I want to make that very clear. If I do this—”

“There's still an if?”

Bruce grits his teeth. “...If I do this, it's for Gotham. Not you.”

“Well.” Joker huffs as if he's put off, but his pupils are dilated, and he's staring at Bruce's lips. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a guy, don't you?”

“No murder. No torture. No psychological damage, to _anyone._ ” Bruce uses the commanding voice of an alpha when he lays out his terms. “You do what you're told when you're told. You don't try to escape. You serve out your sentence without causing anyone any trouble. Is that clear?”

“Well, there go my weekend plans.” Joker blows his bangs out of his face, dangling loosely in Bruce's grip. He's perfectly capable of standing up and supporting his own weight, but Bruce suspects this is punishment for daring to ruin his “fun.” He holds him steady anyway.

“I need an answer.”

“...Not even a little torture? The kind that doesn't scar?”

Bruce fixes him with a look that can't get any further from amused.

“I'll take that as a no.” He heaves a great big sigh. “ _Fine._ But in return, you have to take care of me, alright? And I mean properly this time, mister!”

Bruce is silent for another long few moments.

He tells himself to back out.

He tells himself this is beyond ridiculous.

He tells himself this will only make things worse.

And then he spins Joker around and begins undoing his straitjacket.

Joker, of course, can't take his victory gracefully. He giggles, sounding practically elated, and wiggles around impatiently.

“You know, I can appreciate bondage as much as the next homicidal maniac, but it really does put a damper on an evening sometimes,” he says. Bruce releases the last catch, and Joker's arms sag. “ _Ahh,_ there we go.”

He spins around, whipping his arms up so that the too-long sleeves of the jacket wrap around Bruce's shoulders. Bruce catches something almost predatory in his half-lidded eyes before Joker pushes himself up on his toes and slams their lips together.

Bruce stands rigid at first, hands hovering awkwardly by Joker's hips. The kiss is toothy and painful, but when Joker takes his lip between his teeth and sucks it into his mouth, Bruce reciprocates almost automatically. He sets one hand on the small of Joker's back and grabs the back of his head with the other, tilting it to the side so he can deepen the kiss.

In such a small space, with the heat increasing between them, Joker's scent begins to grow even more intoxicating. Bruce slips a tongue into his mouth to taste him, but hardly manages to do so before teeth sink none-too-gently into the muscle.

He isn't able to pull back until he yanks Joker's hair so hard that he tears a few strands out. He scowls, but Joker is all smiles, blood smeared over his teeth.

“Sorry,” he says, and his voice is already strained. Bruce wonders if it's from the hand still holding him by the hair or his growing arousal. “But it has been _far_ too long since I've gotten a taste of you.”

Bruce growls. He's a man of few words on a good day, but when he's in a rut, conversation is even harder to come by. He doesn't want to bother with their back-and-forth, just wants to do what he came here for and go. The only reason he doesn't tear Joker's straitjacket when he pulls it off is because that would be hard to explain to the guards.

Joker laughs all the while, that grating, cackling laugh. As soon as the straitjacket hits the floor, Bruce does what he always does in situations like this.

He punches Joker in the stomach.

This isn't something he would normally do to a partner. But Joker, he thinks, isn't a partner in any traditional sense of the word. He's certainly not bond material. If they weren't rough with each other, this situation would be even more abnormal.

...It's a justification not even he's comfortable with. But Joker laughs some more (once he stops coughing), so it's not like he minds the treatment.

“There's the Batsy I know and love!” He pushes himself up on an elbow, then drags his hand over his spit-covered mouth. “I've been craving that since you put me in here. Do you know how boring it gets when I don't have any bruises to count? You really should—”

“Be quiet.”

Bruce kneels in front of Joker, and prays that he looks more put-together than he feels. Every word Joker says sends vibrations straight to his cock, already hard and straining in his pants. His instincts are telling him to shut up the rowdy omega, teach him his place, strip every bit of sense from him until he's the only one holding him together.

With strong, steady hands, he flips Joker onto his stomach, then leans down and bites that sweet spot on the back of his neck. Joker's attempt at a comeback dies on his tongue, and he sags boneless under Bruce. He only moves enough to shuffle his legs open wider and arch his back.

Bruce usually doesn't do this to omegas. He's always considered it a bit of a dirty trick to use their scruff-based reflexes against them. But there's something immensely satisfying about being able to make the Joker, of all people, go still underneath him, so he doesn't let up.

(He catches himself wondering if he should try this the next time they fight, but hurriedly pushes that thought out of his mind.)

It's a bit awkward in their current position, but he's able to remove his gauntlets and free his cock from his armor without letting go. Joker whines while he does it, shifting and huffing, until Bruce's bare hand against his hip makes him sigh. With one quick jerk of his wrist, he tugs down Joker's dingy Arkham-issued pants.

He's entirely unsurprised to find that he isn't wearing any underwear.

He can _smell_ the slick already, and it's so strong and overpowering that it draws out a growl from him. He salivates, dragging his tongue over the skin in his mouth while he trails his fingers over the cleft of Joker's ass. He pushes two fingers in at once and lifts his head off Joker's neck, only to keep him pinned down with his other hand.

His fingers go in easy, drawing a salacious whine out of Joker's throat. He isn't met with any resistance at all — doesn't think he'd slow down even if he did — so he pumps them in and out in quick, firm motions.

“Thaaaat's it, Batsy, there you go,” Joker drones. His cheek is pressed against the floor, and he's drooling, eyes half-lidded and far off. Through it all, he still manages to smile. “Little... harder, _mmn, darling..._ ”

The term of endearment, while in no way new, raises Bruce's hackles. Even though Joker can't see it from this angle, he bares his teeth. His heart is pumping, filling his veins with the sort of bone-deep adrenaline you can only get from a rut, and he's glad he thought to disable the cameras before coming here, because he's sure he won't be proud of himself once this is all over. He should have more self-control than this.

He should. But Joker keeps moaning, keeps throbbing around him, and all he can think about is _claiming_ him so fully that his scent will linger on Joker for weeks. It's a terrible thought, an idiotic idea, but in the heat of the moment, he wants the other inmates to know what went down between the two of them. Cobblepot and Dent and Crane and even someone as sensual and confident as Ivy. Let them all know that, not only has he beaten all of them, but he could dominate them like this if he wanted.

He twists his wrist and adds another finger, speeding up the pace.

Joker claws at the padded floor, the squeak of the material a counterpart to the wet squelching sounds Bruce makes with every thrust. Joker's rocking his hips back, almost too roughly for Bruce to keep up with.

Almost.

But Bruce changes the angle and crooks his fingers downward, and when he does that, Joker's eyes and mouth both go wide. He bears down until he feels resistance, brushing up against Joker's prostate so hard that it's less _brushing_ and more _pushing._ He doesn't know where to look: Joker's lust-dazed face, or his gaping, slicked-up hole.

He feels a full-body shudder under both his hands, and then, shakily, Joker begins to laugh. It's such a fragmented and airy sound that it almost sounds like a sob at first, but no, he's sure not even _he_ could get Joker to cry. The laughter bubbles out between short, harsh whines, so unusual, so very Joker.

“Good— Bats— please— more— t-tear me— apart...! _Kill me, kill me, kill me—!_ ”

Of course that's what he'd want. Bruce is happy not to oblige. He yanks his fingers out, roughly grabbing Joker's thigh to spread him even wider. As soon as he moves his other hand to set it on Joker's hip, Joker pushes himself up on his hands and knees, head hanging down so he can look at Bruce at a skewed angle.

“Know you've g-got it in you, ol' boy, ah...” He chokes when Bruce lines his cock up with his hole. “You want it, too, I know you do... Can see it... in your _eyes—!_ ”

Bruce growls, low and angry and _alpha,_ and pushes in with one hard thrust.

Joker throws his head back and howls, and if Bruce were in his right mind, he'd be thanking his lucky stars that these rooms are sound-proof. But Joker's so hot and wet and tight, and he can think of little more than rocking his hips, digging his fingers into Joker's pale white sides to leave ugly bruises on his skin. Joker keeps up surprisingly well, throwing himself back on Bruce's cock with all the enthusiasm of an overdramatic porn star.

They're so slick and desperate that Bruce's cock slips out a few times, so he presses closer and shortens his thrusts. It's harsh, deep, and from the sounds of it, Joker likes the change as much as he does.

“ _Yes,_ like that, split me open,” he says, and Bruce is beginning to like the chatter far more than he should. “D-don't be so _silent,_ big guy, don't be so nice...! Do you hate me? Tell me you do. Say it, Batsy, say it...”

“Needy,” he says, low and gravelly. He sinks his teeth into the shell of Joker's ear, drawing out a sharp cry.

“I need _you,_ ” Joker groans, “like you need me. Don't you? Mmn, Bats, admit it... Y-you can't live without me, hah...”

Bruce moves to bite Joker's neck instead, not at the scruff, but at the place where his neck and shoulder meet. Joker trills out a sound that's as much laughter as it is a moan, and it spurs Bruce to fuck him harder.

“Good, good, good, so _close,_ hit me... Hit me, hit me, I killed your sidekick, Bats, hit me!”

Bruce draws back and slams Joker's head against the floor so hard that even the padding can't stop his nose from breaking. There's a sickening _crunch,_ and then Joker cackles, shaking with the force of it. He stops partway through to cough and splutter, and Bruce assumes he's choking on his own blood. He likes the idea a lot.

“He bled _so_ much—”

Bruce slams a fist into his kidney.

“—cried f-for _you—_ ”

Reaches out and snaps his wrist.

“— _aaAAGH,_ that's right, darling, it sounded like that when I— bashed his kneecaps in—”

Bruce wraps a hand around Joker's neck, drags him up and back. He's still _going,_ still fucking him, even though he's sick to his stomach and his better judgment is telling him to stop. But as an alpha, a father, the _Batman,_ he can't pull himself away, can't stop what he's doing. He knows Joker loves it all, but that doesn't make it any less therapeutic to press his palm against his windpipe until not even a whisper can make its way out.

He growls and he snarls and he bites Joker until he bleeds, and then he comes, deep inside him.

  
  


By the time he comes back to his senses, he can't tell whether or not Joker followed suit. The floor is a mess of slick and blood and sweat and cum, the stench of it all so thick in the air that he feels like he can taste it in the back of his throat.

Joker is breathing, but he's not conscious. Despite that, the muscles in his face are pulled taut, showing off his bloodstained teeth in a wide grin.

Bruce stares at him for a moment, at the ring of bruises around his neck, the pool of blood under his broken nose. He wonders if it would be better for everyone if he gave in, snapped his neck once and for all.

“ _I need you,”_ he hears in his head, _“like you need me. Don't you?”_

Bruce doesn't answer.

He cleans the both of them up.

 


End file.
